


Shining red and gold

by sb_essebi



Series: Whouffaldi one-shots [16]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fuck Or Die, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-01 09:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sb_essebi/pseuds/sb_essebi
Summary: Prompt by anonymous: How about a smut chapter were The Doctor gets a rare disease and the only cure is to have sex with Clara?





	Shining red and gold

The rain was knocking gently on the windows of her flat as Clara busied herself with grading some papers. She always tried to finish what she needed to do for school as soon as possible so she wouldn't need to worry about unfinished business in case the Doctor showed up unannounced - which was 99% of the times he showed up. 

The familiar noise of the TARDIS materializing in the middle of her living room made her jump just a little, and she let out the shortest huff of frustration at the idea of leaving her work half-way, but just the idea of seeing the Doctor gave a rush of excitement and happiness, and intimately her heart jumped with the possibility of incoming adventures. She smiled, abandoning the red pen on the sofa and walking towards the big blue box.

She expected the Doctor to lean out of the doors looking for her, as he always did, but this wasn't the case. She barely gave it thought, though, and simply opened the door herself, stepping inside.

"Doctor?" she called when she wasn't immediately greeted by a vague but endearing offer of a planet or another. She circled the console. The Doctor was nowhere to be found. "Did you come here by yourself?" she asked the TARDIS, slightly surprised.  "Where is he?"

The TARDIS gave a distinctly unhappy noise and the lights went out for a moment. Then, a small trail of lights turned on on the floor, indicating a path among the many corridors.

"Oh. Right. Neat," Clara murmured, more to herself than anything else. "He's alright, isn't he? Should I be worried?" she asked, louder this time, even though she knew that the TARDIS was telepathically connected to its occupants anyway.

Even as she said the words, Clara was already worrying. It was like an instinct, ingrained in her DNA, that pushed her automatically to worry for the Doctor as if he were an extension of her very being. The TARDIS replied with another upset sound, which didn't do any good for the growing pressure of the anxiety in Clara's chest.

Clara followed the lights in a long and complicated route, one she knew she wouldn't be able to repeat backwards without help, which only made her more nervous. Soon, she went from anxious to scared. She could hear someone moaning in pain, and she could recognize that voice between a thousand voices. The Doctor's voice.

Clara immediately started to walk faster, spotting a door left half-open at the end of the corridor.

"Doctor? Are you okay?" she asked as she entered without much hesitation.

"No. Oh, no no no no no," she heard the Doctor plead, voice broken. "Why did you bring her here? I told you not to. God, why don't you _ever_ listen?"

The Doctor was lying in bed, on his back, on top of dark blue sheets, rumpling them as he shifted his hips restlessly, face flushed, wincing. He had lost his jacket, jumper and undershirt, which lay now forgotten on the floor, but his skin was reddened and damp with sweat and he was breathing heavily, audibly, spreading his legs as much as his tight-fitting trousers allowed. One of his hands was clutching at his lower abdomen while the other tried to cover his eyes, which were shut in pain. Clara couldn't help noticing the tenting of his trousers as his fingers pulled at the fabric. She felt her cheeks warm up with that knowledge. The sight of him so out of himself, sweated and shirtless and so obviously aroused would have been unbelievably hot if Clara hadn’t been able to see how he was clearly on the verge of tears with agony.

As soon as she came closer and climbed on the empty side of the bed, he tried to hide as much as he could of his pain, trying to stead his breath and still the rhythmic jerking of his hips, his hands gripping the sheets at his sides tightly for focus and balance, but Clara saw his body tremble violently with the effort.

"Doctor-" she started gently, knowing that getting the truth out of him wouldn't be easy.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. Please. Oh, I wish you weren't here- no. Sorry, no, that's a lie. But you- you make so much more difficult... easier..."

"Doctor, you're rambling."

She shook her head. Seeing him in so much pain broke her heart. She hated to see him like this.

"I'm not. Just-- it’s killing me. Can't think."

"Okay. It's okay, you're gonna be okay,” she soothed gently. “Tell me what happened. Take a deep breath."

She moved her hand to touch his forehead and check for fever, but he grabbed her wrist, then intertwining their fingers and holding her hand firmly.

"Please. Don't touch me."

" _You_ are touching _me_."

"So I am," he admitted after a moment, taking deep, controlled breaths.

"Tell me what happened."

The Doctor swallowed thickly. “I contracted a virus. I am-- uh, going to be in a lot of pain in the next hours so… I’d appreciate it if you could-- leave right now.”

“Right, that’s not going to happen. There’s no way I’m leaving you like this. Next request? What can I do to help? Can you take something for the pain?”

“ _Clara_ -“ he began, with that tone he used when he was convinced he had to make her see reason.

“I said _no_ , Doctor,” she cut short. “So. Painkillers?”

“Won’t work.”

He winced, his body shaken by a brief spasm.

“Okay. Doctor, look at me. Talk to me, what can I do?”

“Leave me alone, that would be great.”

“Yeah, well, I just told you that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to leave you like this.” With her free hand she dried his forehead gently with a corner of the sheets. He shut his eyes more tightly in response. “Talk to me, Doctor. This virus. How do we cure it?”

“Intercourse,” she heard him blurt out. “…a _h_ , didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“I’m- I’m sorry?”

“The virus, it- it-- uhm, compromises my nervous system. Certain hormones act as natural antibodies.”

Clara felt her cheeks positively burn and a lump form in her throat. She cleared her throat, trying to shake the feel away.

“Sex hormones? Then why don’t you just… you know. _Handle_ it.”

It was embarrassing to talk to _him_ about this. He was the Doctor, her best friend… who she was in love with, had known she was in love with since that day on the Orient Express.

Even more embarrassing was how quick her brain was in supplying the most vivid image of the Doctor lying on his back, shirtless, much like he did now, trousers unzipped, leisurely stroking his cock, which was long and thick, hard and leaking pre-come, whimpering her name pliantly as he did so. Clara distinctly felt a rush of wetness at the apex of her thighs at that vision, her knickers getting slightly damp and plastered over her clit, now sensitive, in a frustrating and uncomfortable combination.

“What?” He frowned, momentarily confused, then grimaced. “No. My body- Gallifreyans don’t work like that. It’s-- different hormones. When it matters. When… we’re in love. It’s slightly different for humans too. Much more for us.”

“You have hormones for sex and for… making love?”

He nodded forcefully, breathing shallowly through his nose, lips pursed. “Love, affection… they’re chemistry. That comes into play when we… well. Stimulates the production of certain hormones.”

“Right.” She bit her lip anxiously, thinking. “So, there’s no one you…” she looked away, struggling to put the words together. “someone you’d like to… you know.”

He opened his eyes very briefly to meet hers, then almost immediately turned to his side, facing away from her, as though ashamed of what she might think, afraid of her judgement.

God, why couldn’t he just say something? She had hoped that… well, she had hoped. Hoped that the Doctor _might_ -just might- _maybe_ want _her_. Even if he had said he wasn’t her boyfriend, even if he was an idiot and rude and _impossible_ , well, she did want him. Did _love_ him. And she thought, at times, that he felt something for her too. But this version of him was never so upfront with his feelings, kept so much to himself that Clara realized she didn’t know anything of what he truly felt. Sure, he was her friend and she was very dear to him, of that she had no doubt, but then? For all she knew, he could still be meeting River when he wasn’t travelling with her.

“Doctor. Talk to me.”

She touched his shoulder delicately, unsure if he would appreciate the contact. He turned his head slightly to look at her: his eyes were filling with tears. Clara wondered if they were because of pain or caused by a memory of someone he had once cared _that much_ about.

“Clara,” he murmured helplessly.

“Look, I know it’s not optimal but… if you want, I’m here. I mean- we’re friends, you’re my best friend. I could-“ She trailed off.

Maybe it was selfish and manipulative of her to offer him that when he was in that state, but Clara couldn’t help it. She didn’t even know if she really wanted to help ease his pain or if she just wanted _him_ , just once in her life. She found she didn’t care either: what mattered after all was if it would help him feel better, not why she was doing it. Which, she supposed, did explain something.

“No,” he answered eventually, and Clara thought it seemed to cost him a great deal to just form the word. “I’m a touch telepath, remember? When I- If we- I’d know. What you’re feeling. That you don’t… it wouldn’t work.”

Clara opened her mouth to answer, only to close it again. Her brain worked frantically on what he had said. He hadn’t turned down her offer because he didn’t feel anything for her. At least, he hadn’t said so. He had said he would know if she didn’t love him, but wasn’t that implying _he_ did?

“Clara. Please, leave now, before I get worse. I’d like to keep what’s left of my dignity intact.” He said it gently, voice barely audible but steady in his resolution.

“Your- your dignity?”

“I’m going to be screaming. Crying. I don’t want you to see me like that.”

His breaths were already losing the rhythm he had forced himself to keep, becoming ragged and difficult.

She didn’t know what to say at that. She didn’t want to leave him alone, especially not like this, but if she couldn’t help…

“Would it mean something…” she started at last, “would it _help_ , if you knew I-- that I’m- I’m in love with you.”

She said the words, thrown there in the air quickly, like when you want to take off a Band-Aid.

Then, everything happened so fast, so suddenly, that the next thing Clara knew was that she was lying on her back, and the Doctor’s lips were warm and firm on hers in a desperate kiss and it felt _amazing_ and she was kissing him back. She responded in kind to his kiss, tasting the salt of his sweat, opening her mouth to the questioning pressure of his tongue on her lips, gasping into him, breathing his air.

It was like receiving an electric shock, her body lit up abruptly feeling and taking and _wanting_. She buried her hands in his hair, grabbed onto his shoulders, his arms, anything that could pull him closer, get her more of him. She had wanted this for so bloody long and now, now she couldn’t get enough. She could never, ever get enough of him, of his odd taste of caffeine and sugar, his comforting smell of chalk, his warm-cool skin and the lithe, strong muscles underneath, tense and hard now under her touch.

He kissed her blindly, frantically, obliterating all her conscious thoughts, his tongue hot in her mouth, caressing hers with urgency, his body plastered against hers. She spread her legs wide for him, demanding him closer. In her ears, nothing made sense but the wet sounds of sloppy, messy kissing. Not a millimetre between them, his bones hard on her skin, his hearts hammering in his ribcage pressed against hers, one hand supporting him and the other searching frenziedly, mapping, tracing her side to find the hem of her skirt. He tugged hard at the fabric, pulling it up to reveal her thighs, her hips, her plain white underwear as his mouth moved to her neck, kissing avidly and surprisingly expertly every inch of skin he could reach, easily drawing a gasping moan from her lips.

Two of the Doctor’s fingers hooked at the waistband of her knickers and pulled, hard. The fabric tensed and dug into her side, until Clara heard it rip, bit by bit, and the pressure loosened until her knickers fell apart between their bodies.

“I’m sorry. _Clara_. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” he panted against her neck, rocking his hips shamelessly into hers. He was steel-hard in his trousers, and Clara found her ability to breathe had disappeared once again. “It’s driving me mad, I can’t stop-“

“ _Please don’t_ ,” she said somehow, and she hardly recognized her own voice for how deep and husky it had gone.

“Oh, Clara. _Oh_.”

He groaned when she rapidly slid her hands between her bodies and unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers with relative ease, slipping one hand down his underwear to touch him.

He nearly shouted, nose pressed into the curve drawn by her neck and shoulder, as she palmed him somewhat shyly, took him in hand.

He felt, well, human. Warm and leaking. She wrapped her fingers around him more firmly, slid her fist down to the base. Thick, a gap between her index and thumb. The Doctor whimpered and pleaded against her skin. She gasped involuntarily, picturing what she couldn’t see, and felt herself grow wetter. She pumped him experimentally a couple of times, and found him so close already, pre-come wetting her hand. She slid her other arm around his waist to lower his trousers, his underwear, and to pull him closer to her.

“ _Clara_. Clara. Please.”

She adjusted her legs around him, to better accommodate him, and guided him inside her. He gasped, and his body jerked forward, pushing all the way inside her. Clara let out a high-pitched moan, fisting his hair tightly.

The Doctor panted into the hollow of her throat, and Clara knew he was trying to control himself, keep himself from thrusting hard into her as her muscles were still contracting and relaxing around him, getting used to the feel of him. Clara tightened her legs around his waist, encouraging him to let go, to take what he needed. She moved one hand to his arse and firmly pushed him, showing him a rhythm.

“ _Clara_ , Gods, I-“

“Okay, okay, okay. Just, let go. I’m right here. Just- I love you, alright?”

She realized she had to make him feel good, feel loved, feel wanted, otherwise maybe the cure wouldn’t work. She caressed his hair, pressing his head against her neck as he kissed her there almost reverently. He began to thrust into her, fast, and hard, making her moan, and she wanted to cry for how good it felt and how wrong at the same time, because she had no idea if this was merely a medicine, a cure for him or something that mattered. Because it mattered to Clara, the only coherent word she could manage being his name. Oh, how much it mattered. Holding him in her arms and feeling his heartbeats against hers, feeling his scent fill her nostrils and loving it so much she wanted to get drunk in it, those were things Clara had dreamed of, and she hardly could focus on the pleasure setting her nerves on fire for how much _everything else_ mattered.

She was unfocused, and not close enough, and felt the Doctor’s body still and his orgasm fill her as he suppressed a shout into the pillow, just next to her head. In the frenzy of the moment, it sounded to her a lot like her name, but that might have been just her imagination.

“I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he murmured, pulling out of her.

Clara almost whimpered at the loss, and tugged him closer, eyes closed, not willing to meet his gaze yet.

“It doesn’t matter. Are you okay?”

She tried to regulate her breath and ignore the throbbing pulse of _need_ at her core.

“Of course it matters, Clara, I-“

“Shut up. Are you feeling better?”

“I am, the pain’s easing down. I’m fine. _Clara._ My Clara, please, look at me.”

Reluctantly, Clara looked. He hovered over her, his weight on his elbows. There was sadness in his eyes, and Clara wondered why.

“I never wanted our first time to be like this.”

“But you- You wanted _what_?”

He smiled.

“Oh, Clara. You have no idea.”

He dropped his forehead gently to touch hers, his lips inches from hers, and suddenly Clara _felt him_. She knew immediately what she was feeling. His mind in hers.

He pulled her into his thoughts, bathed her in them, and all he allowed her to see was shining red and gold, something so huge she couldn’t quite make out what it was for a long moment. Then she understood, and his feelings washed over her. Love, admiration, adoration, an intensity of feeling, of need, of affection so big Clara couldn’t take it in all at once.

Then, the Doctor lifted his forehead from hers, and the sensation faded away.

“There are no words to describe what I feel for you, Clara Oswald.”

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” she said automatically, hating the idea of having thought he didn’t love her.

“Don’t be. I’m not very good at this, am I?”

“I’m crap at this, too.” Expressing feelings, not their area. Bad timing, in that they excelled.

He remained silent, delicately tracing the line of her jaw with the tip of his index. He touched his lips to hers just barely, just for an instant, and it made Clara shiver.

“Let me demonstrate,” he said, and Clara nodded. 

Clara thought of sex as something fun. Maybe a bit dirty, a bit private, a secret to be shared between two people. Something to do to feel good and make someone else feel good. The Doctor destroyed that concept for her, forever. He touched her, and kissed her, and made love to her, with reverence, with feather-light touch, with amazement and devotion in his eyes and his voice, and Clara felt _worshipped_. If love had been the Doctor’s religion, this would have been his sacred ritual, and Clara would have been his goddess. And she was.


End file.
